The Whimsical
by Not a sexual predator
Summary: The horrific tale of a man broken and shattered by madness, simply known as the Wunderlich or the Whimsical. Discover his story, his past, and his present through short yet mysterious chapters that will reveal bit by bit this odd man and his never-ending nightmare. Contains gruesome descriptions.
1. First Blood

**"... harmony is not with us, living hell is coming..."**

_Yet another night he would spend under the rain of blood. The red moon flashing between the ever-changing shadows, burning in the sky of the distorted and ethernal darkness of the night. His greaves, wet and tinted in red fought their way through the rotten bones, the decayed flesh of the corpses being torn off with every step only to return to the festing maggots, twisting and turning in the infinite despair of this world. Dragging his greatsword behind him, the tip carving a trail below him with every step he gives, the light that once shined from the steel being gone forever. The cape on his back no longer well-fashioned, but a mere rag soaked in the red ocean in his feet. Stumbling forward, dragging the remains of his armor through the hellish landscape._

_How long he had walked this plane was unknown to him, unable to tell even if his mind was truly awake, that his heart still beats in his chest, that his veins were still filled with blood. Feeling empty inside, a husk that would soon break and fall and join the corpses below, the maggots to sing in thriumph before digging into his flesh._

_Never. The mere though once again brought the strenght of his spirit, of his muscles, as it has done ever since this hell fell upon him. Gasping for air, the taste of the fresh blood of the rain filtered in his mouth only to leave the disgusting metallic flavor nailed within him despite his attempts to spit it. Loath and despair being the name of the wound opening by such simple event. He looks down, advancing blindly in the endless graveyard._

_When he finally dares look forward, the immediate paralysis produced by a mixture of awe and joy almost makes him forget his fate. At the distance, a small hill rises. Despite the soil being still grotesque displays of agonic deaths, it's the windmill that lies above that catches his attention. Dark and corrupted, wrapped by red thorns that seemed about to swallow it, but functional. Spinning under the rain of blood, his steps try to recover some haste. Fruitlessly. The over-extended lack of sleep not allowing him, causing him to lose balance and fall on his knee right on top of a woman's dry head, the knee breaking the face into infinite shards inmediately swallowed by the red. A light gasp by the crack under him, he refuses to look down to not hinder his objective._

_A long walk, eyes wide open looking at the blades go round and round under the rain, the red mist clearing with every step he takes to eventually reveal a small house and a small stable by it with the same twisted and corruped style as the landscape. He climbs the hill of corpses, grabbing twisted limbs, empty skulls, rotten guts torn apart by his pulls until he finally, stands before the house. A simple rectangular house, the stables being to it's left and the mill some distance away, revealing the massive size of it. Panting, he remains on the spot, motionless. For the first time in what seemed to be centuries, he had found something else than bodies and oceans of red. The rain of blood washes down on his face from the broken helmet, down his body through the torn plate._

_Movement. His muscles tense, his hand tightening the grip of the hilt, ready to fight whatever threat dares show up as his left hand hides behind him, ready to cast a spell if needed. Secretly wishing for the best, for an escape of the rain. A figure opens the door angrily, approaching through the raid swiftly and angrily, stepping into ponds and corpses as if they weren't there. As if didn't matter. As if it didn't care._

_An old nord. Possibly old enough to have reached the age of fifty, his face showing wrinkles, a light tan being almost impossible to distinguish from the blood that slowly was soaking him, the rain bathing his rough clothes. As distance became less, it was shown that his own height was way above average nords. Anger clearly present, a menacing posture comes out from him as his yells reach him perfectly despite the heavy downpour._

_"What in the Divine's Name are you doing!?" - He said, leaning forward towards him, looking from below. The old man clearly not having any problems to show his heritage with a light attempt to push him back, Siegfried not moving at all by such display. Instead, he looks down at him. Perplexed by the old man's ignorance, of the old man's blindness of the hellish landscape around him, of the relief that is finding a living being after such a long time. No replies comes from him._

_The old man's anger only seems to fuel up due to Siegfried's lack of response, taking such as a sign of fear and replying with a daring act. He reaches up for Siegfried's horned helmel, removing it with a slap-like motion. The half-broken helmet falls down, rolling downhill through the cadavers, bumping up and down with limbs and bones until it's lost forever between them._

_And such small daring act broke any kind of hope._

_A lighting flashed up in the sky, inmediately followed by thunder. All turns into white only to fade in a blink of an eye. But nothing was the same. The man was no longer man. A vortex of limbs and rotten body parts displaying proudly before him, creature not being able to classify as anything but a monster, the word not even close to describe the repulse that merged in him. The rain of blood no longer, being replaced by falling bodies, falling people. Screaming with devastated voices, powerless as they hit the pile of bodies only to join the soil and the ponds of maggots that claim them. All shakes around them, the house slowly falling apart and it's pieces to be swallowed whole by the putrefaction that even claims the wood. And so, the creature before him showing it's true form right before trying to claim his life only devastates and crumbles any kind of hope withing him and simply giving him a glimpse of the remorse and sadness that would result after he purges such creature and is left alone in this nightmare._

_Inmediately he lets go of his rusty greatsword, reaching for the creature's neck in a fast motion as his left hand conjures the power of Akatosh, forming a spear of light in his hand. Anger taking a hold of him as he over-charges the spell, the spear feeling so powerful that even hurts his owner. And so, with an agonic scream from the pain, he purges it._

* * *

Lami secretly watched from the lightly opened door at the daylight of a beatiful Turdas in the month of the Last Seed. The hot rays of the sun filled the humble house with warmth as no clouds would dare show themselves in such clear day. The smell of the mushroom stew of her father Assur slowly cooled in the dying fireplaye. Her gray eyes watched wide open as her father was held in the air by his neck, trying to fight the arm that was slowly strangling him, his feet kicking the air in vain. She panted quickly, her chest going up and down as the sweat ran between her bosom, holding the wooden door with a shaky hand. All this because Assur's crazy love for the garden that the intruder had stepped, and the incontrolable anger that her father unfortunately posessed. Begging to the Nine for all this to end.

The intruder's right arm no longer shining, the beam of light turned into darkness after being as bright as the sun, his arm being swallowed whole by the magic and burning the left side of his armor, the flesh being next as the cracks of the melt resonated in her ears. She opens the door, witnessing such bizarre scene on her knees, making promises to any superior power that would make the spell swallow the intruder whole, that would save her father, and that would end the terrible sight.

But there was no reply. Her father suddenly vanishes with the stranger, being replaced by an explosion of red drops that scatter all around, and even seem to hinder the light of the sun. She closes her eyes at such, feeling warm droplets across her face, scattering over the windows, over the walls, over the ground. The sound being terrifying, abnoxious, but yet so powerful that her heart seems to freeze in her chest for a moment, before returning to the heavy beating inside her.

Her eyes slowly open, her sight meeting the red droplets scattered all over the entrance of the house, over the soil path, over every flower that decorated the humble house. Static in her ears, as her eyes reached the intruder's feet. A big splash of red around some unidentified objects, as if someone spilled a red stew just to see what contents it had. Breath gone, her eyes graze up the intruder's legs, in which red was combined with black smoke coming from the man's flesh, the left side of the armor, greaves and arm being completely burnt and distorted, partially melt. And in that smokey, burnt arm, he held it.

Her father.

The mane of blond hair being partially gone, burnt to reveal the red remains of the neck, chuncks of meat hanging, dripping red, swaying on the light breeze. Red is blood, and her father was now reduced to a head and broken bones that remained in the neck. Her hands slowly reach the top of her head, her eyes looking up at the clear blue sky, the tears refusing to come out for some reason, only to give up as she screamed to the heaven's above until her lungs were empty and her vocal cords were ripped apart within her throat.

Her mind clouded by pure despair and anger, by rage. The scream now a gurgle with her blood, with the fibres that once gave her voice almost chocking her. Her eyes quickly looked towards the front yard, her mind now telling her to save herself instead of mourning her father, to run away into the distance and simply fade. But all hope is gone, as the intruder's shadow lies upon her.

* * *

_The thunder announces the rain, lazily becoming the usual downpour of blood all around him, the dwell of the clouds before the red moon in the sky. The sound of his greaves walking through corpses, through maggots, through ponds. The sensation of his greatsword being dragged upon corpses only to fall in a pond, only to hear the spashing of the water all around him. Only to feel the liquid washing him over, washing his exhaust._

_An endless curse, forced to roam this neverending nightmare of rain and maggots. A man broken by his own ambitions, by his ego and false promises of power. A life without a meaning if to spend it alone, if to be trapped without an objective, no purpose but the torture._

_Siegfried stops, his head tilting back in order to look up at the sky. His right hand pulls the greatsword before him and spinning it around, shoving the hilt into the corpses, and placing the tip of the blade near his chest, his eyes looking down at the faces of the dead. Tired. Leaning forward, his hands place the tip of the sword against his body. And so, he lets go of his weight._

_And he falls on the ground, his face splashing on the blood below him, his head colliding with the heads of the agonic corpses, the blade breaking to pieces under his weight. A minute of silence, before rolling to his back and staring at the sky. He begins laughing, lightly at first but quickly becoming insane._

_All he ever wanted is to escape the rain. To taste peace, to help, to be useful. To have a wife, children, grandchildren. To experience fear. To become a man. But yet everything he had accomplished was being surrounded by agony, by death, and by rain. The neverending rain. His last wish, his last will also being denied to him, not even able to claim his life as his own. And most of all: despite all this agony, despite all this death, and despite all this raid..._

**_Where is the fear?_**

* * *

The chain was wrapped around her neck, cold chain trying to send chills down her back, fruitlessly, her senses telling her to escape, fruitlessly, her body telling her to panic, fruitlessly, her eyes telling her to fear, fruitlessly. Mind completely blank, body shaking but still, she awaits her destiny.

The chain clanks, the pressure on her neck becoming mortal, her body being lifted up into the air. The clang of the chain against the wooden beams of the stable being the tune of her perish. An insane laughter soon replaces it, being deep and maniacal, hysterical. Insane. The inevitable panic from the imminent death opens her eyes and wakes her body, hands going to the chains in order to fight them in vain, her legs kicking the air in order to save her, in vain. Her throat trying to gasp for a blast of air, in vain.

Her mind quickly working as if memories would save her from iron, as if her dreams of a first kiss, of exploring the world, of having children, of being happy would make a difference. Soon, she feels it slowing down, her muscles losing strength. She looks at the intruder, begging with her grey eyes. In vain.

The image of the man that destroyed all she ever loved within minutes finally sank down inside her. His face half-burned, left side completely red and still smoking, the smell of burnt flesh still caught in her lungs mixed with the smell of burnt hair, his beard being cut in two by the flames. Laughing like a maniac, like a mad-man, as he held pulled the chains. As he pulled her life from her. But yet, despite all the hate, fury and fear she felt before him, something else washed that over as she saw his eyes. Grey eyes like hers surrounded by blood lines looked between her, eyelids black as coal showing great lack of sleep, slowly tearing up as he continued laughing. Her vision slowly becoming dark, her muscles giving up as she finally understood. She did not feel hate, fury nor fear for him, but pity. And so, it became darkness just after she saw his eyes finally releasing red tears that slowly flowed down his cheek, like

**the rain.**


	2. Second Revelation

_"Down we must go, to that dark world and blind_

_I will go first, come thou behind."_

**Echo. Echo. Echo.**

His bare feet collided against the cold stone, the fleshy and wet sound clapping over and over again until faded in the distance, as the echo faded to nothing. Nothing, but black is around him. Complete darkness wrapping him in a cold blanket, pulling him forward, pushing him away from the light. His feet bled, unprotected from whatever the Gods planted below his feet as a harsh punishment, as an absolution for his actions, making the path with hidden red footprints to be avoided. To stablish a warning sign for those who still can live, and love, and sleep. And die.

He felt nothing. He saw nothing. As if his eyes were sewn, even if light was cast upon the neverending corridor, he would never be able to see anything despite looking forward. Perhaps he was a sleepwalker, a creature who roams while his mind rests somewhere between flowers and blue skies. But the reality couldn't be more terrible, instead of flowers and blue skies he only witnessed the rain of blood falling upon the spuring maggots whilst they continue to shriek for him as they fest on the gleaming white bones of those who perished before him. While their united stirring into the rotten flesh overrides the sound of the rain, filling his ears with the yolk of disgust and despair equally, crying for his surrender in a breathtaking beg.

Whatever it might be he was truly feeling, this empty man would never know. Shattered by the madness, broken and destroyed in pieces by his own ambition, tricked and deceived by that beguiled voice who promised him to fill that empty space within him. No... not a sleepwalker. Sleep and rest is something he would only beg to feel, and would only be delivered by a blade dipping into his heart.

But for now, he would only feel his need to advance forward. Driven by instinct, it was that what kept him alive, what reminded him to eat and drink. What got him on his knees and fixed his eyes in the distance while attempting to put him to sleep in vain while his eyes bled from exhaust until the sun raised again in the horizon and resumed his pathless journey. What filled his lungs with air and what made him take the life of whom dared look upon him. Animals are bound to feel more that this reject, living only to destroy and cause pain perhaps jealous of their happiness.

His feet stop, his eyes look at the darkness before him. This was the end of the journey, such is the message his instinct yells inside his mind. Silence soon overtakes the empty corridor, broken by the man's gaspic inhales of the cold air, and his senseless mumbling that never leaves his lips, usually hidden by even the slightest breeze. The hemorrage of his soles diminishes, yet still persist enough to create a gruesome shadow of red below him. Time passes, second by second, as the man simply remains in place. What a fool he would look if revealed from the shadows! Unable to take a step by his own will, instead driven by that animalistic sense that commanded his life. He would not move a step if what the darkness hid before him was a simple wall. But fate does not stop weaving it's madness, as soon it would greet the man with a new path.

Before him, a red light begins twitching through a slits of some kind of door. Weak at first, the pulse gains force every time it shines the crimson energy towards the room. More and more slits appear until the amount of light reveals the chasmic room in which the wanderer stood. Tainted by the red, his naked body is revealed, the scars of his actions reflecting back like a clear and calm pond of blood. The firm skin, young and well protected, was now divided in two. The left side of his body was completely burnt, melt by his own lack of from his forehead to his toes, few parts of his left side were saved from such rough texture, from such fresh wound that still bleeds as he moves. The dirt and mud covered the rest, a clear record of the large amount of time he had spend out of whatever dignity a rag could give such.. thing. The developed muscles were clearly defined, a wall of bulks being his wall against the world, yet also showing the dehydratation and hunger that had befalled upon him as he entered this forgotten ruins, the ribs threatening to reveal themselves through the thin and pale skin. His feet reveal the gruesome details of their wounds, apparently having walked without any kind of protection for long weeks, being completely covered by the fresh wounds made by spikey stones and thorns that made their home deep inside his flesh. Atleast it was his instict what kept the infection away from him through pulsing healing waves that came every few minutes through his body, not strong enough to mend his wounds but enough to destroy any organism that seeks to make it's home inside his body. His hands hanged idly from his shoulders, being swayed around like a burden. They were also covered in dry blood, yet it was not his but the one of his meals. The right one was obviously burnt aswell, being far more damaged than the rest of the burns as it was the source of the magic that scortches his flesh from his lack of moderation in it's use.

And atop his shoulders stood the idiotic face of his, dumb expression at it's finest. The sticky and unwashed spoil that called itself hair still allowed his features to be seen and laughted upon. The mouth lies half open, it's surroundings being old displays of the blood that ran through the veins of the fresh victims he used to satisfy his hunger and thirst. The lips twitch faintly, trying desperately to turn those mumblings of his throat into words. His grey eyes were surrounded by the blackest eyelids possible, which begged his eyes to close and lie the man asleep, protesting every single night with tears of blood that ran down his cheeks to redraw the red lines that reached either the remaining beard or the rough texture of his burnt face. His stare was looking somewhere ahead, yet not a iota of attention was carried along with it.

The door screetches, crumbling down with a thunderous sound like consumed by fire, and taking away the red light with it. The dust is carried by the outburst of wind, being strong enough to push the glued hair away from the wanderer's face, soon to fade and to return to the tense enviroment of the room. But the darkness did not return, atleast not completely. A faint white light was seen infront, in the next room that was protected by the door.

His steps resume his journey, somehow knowing that these steps would be the last, like a whisper behind his ears. The feet flop once again on the cold stone, returning the echo to crash the silence. The white light bathes him furthermore with every step he advances. His clumsy feet manage to walk through the debris of the door, not without wounding them furthermore or incrusing stone into his skin. Bathed completely by the light beyond, he stands in a circular room.

Clean, completely white, completely new. The stone were fresh, as if never stepped upon, virgin to the touch of the dust. Gleaming, the light was as pure as the soul of a newborn. Of course, this did not last. Soon the blood of the wanderer's feet broke the charm and calm. The walls of the room were mirrors, who reflected the wanderer's figure from all angles before the glass starts vibrating, shattering to the point it became a fine white dust that fell from all directions just as his image enters the neverending yawning of reflections. But the light did not fade, still calling for him, still pulling him forward. His eyes fix on the light, but they do not hurt but feel relief, as if being healed by the white. Another step, then another... His instict had doubts, slowing down furthermore but not allowing him to stop, unknown of what lies ahead.

The final step. The light fades, moving away from before him and instead illuminating from above. Another mirror lied forward, fit in a extraordinary frame. But not as extraordinary and bizarre as the image inside the mirror.

Himself. His eyes fix in his reflection, in those eyes that stared through the glass. Those eyes who watched him with pity, with sadness as the rain of blood washed his skin over, as the maggots danced in his feet, as the decaying and agonic corpses around him started disolving into dust. A mirror is a reflection of a man's soul, yet this man was empty and his soul was not with him. But this mirror was no common glass, but an Ayelid artefact that allowed his lost soul to be with him again. The wanderer feels, the wanderer grows sad. He extends his left hand towards the mirror, eager to touch the glass with his rough fingers as his reflections raises his while the rain grazes down his also rough skin. Their eyes do not look away, captured and locked in eachothers'. His hand trembles as it closes the glass, the instinct ordering him to retract it immediately, to turn around and run away but it no longer had power over him. A fool is what he was, something he realized the moment he touched the glass.

Like a spear, remorse pierced through his heart. For that instant their hands touched, for that instant his soul was united in his body, all his memories and emotions came like a massive wave that flooded his feelings. Like a lightning, he felt all the emotions that he should have felt all those times he took a life, all those victims he killed just because he felt threatened by their disgusted looks. Like a lighning, he recalled every agonic grimace those hundreds that died by his hand made before being still bodies. But nothing was as terrible as the memory. The minutes he had done what no man should ever do, the moment his soul witnesses what his body had done in his absence.

He recalled the moment his body was stripped of his most of his soul, leaving enough inside to be able to breathe. He recalled his eyes opening, looking forward to meet his wife, Hege, and her anxious eyes, how she reached down for him in worry, her lips moving and asking him what happened, that she is sorry...

He recalled his hand taking a hold of her wrist and breaking it almost immediately, her surprise as he pinned her down below him as her screams of pain and confusion filled his ears. He recalled how he raped her like an animal only to smash her head against the stone ground and put her life to an end. How he stood up, looked at the exit of the basement to meet his two sons, Siegmund and Gottfried, and their terrified faces, their confussion. How Siegmund stood before his younger brother while the tears rand down like rivers from his eyes, how he fell to the ground when the boy's head rolled down from his shoulder and lost itself in the darkness as his body crumbled down. He recalled his younger son trying to flee only to be catched without much effort, his despair as he yelled atop of his lungs before the crack of his neck's bones silenced his writhes. Forever.

And that ethernal instant was finally over, announced by the mirror shattering into pieces, shards spreading all around as the man fell on his knees. As he laid to his right side and curled himself in a burnt and scorched ball. Like a newborn monster whose distorted cries and sobs shattered the silence as the shards of glass shatter on the ground and become dust.

Behold this fool. This monster who owns nothing, who will own nothing and who is nothing. This creature whose soul was not his to command, who doesn't even own the spit of those who dare look upon his hideous presence. This reject who is unwated by the living and the dead, unwanted by the Heavens and the Hells. Look upon his empty cries and sobs, upon his bloody tears, not even aware anymore of what why was he in such despair, why he his heart screams from inside him in rage and anger and why his body was releasing every bit of magika it held in a dark and twisted flame in the small room.

Behold his cries and sobs echo through the ruins.

**Echo. Echo. Echo.**


	3. Third Torture

_"You can't break a man the way you break a dog or a horse. The harder you beat a man, the taller he stands. To break a man's will, to break his spirit, you have to break his mind."_

**Lifts-Her-Tail**: Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers.

**Crantius Colto**: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?

**Lifts-Her-Tail**: I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor Argonian maid.

**Crantius Colto**: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong legs and shapely tail.

**Lifts-Her-Tail**: You embarrass me, sir!

**Crantius Colto**: Fear not. You are safe here with me.

**Lifts-Her-Tail**: I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my head if I do not!

**Crantius Colto**: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear.

**Lifts-Her-Tail**: But it is huge! It could take me all night!

The laughter filled the room within seconds like the fire that shines in the fireplace, the glass of Flin threatening to spill under such cheer. The book fell in the man's lap, closing it in the process as it rolls down to the carpet. His now free hand goes to cover his face, perhaps to preserve the moment of joy furthermore. Soon, it all faded away.

Recovering his composture, the laughter being surpressed until it became a soft exhale to conclude it. He lays back in the comfortable couch, covered with the clean fur of a snow sabrecat, white as the fresh snow and soft as the light wind of the Second Seed. Closing his eyes for a moment to experience the hot embrace of the fur, a moan comes out from him as a compliment to the fine beast that honors him with it's pelt. The glass of Flin meets his lips, pouring the exquisite wine and it's most delicate taste quite slowly, patiently enjoying the Imperial wine as much as he can. His eyes open, looking below the small table to the book he so much enjoyed. The Lusty Argonian Maid is truly an amusing piece in his opinion, playing with double meanings in exactly the way men like it. The reference of the spear brought a light scoff to him once again, immediately dismissing it with a light shake of his head.

"Dinner's getting cold!" His wife Nilsine called from the dinner-room, trying to hide her exhasperation without much luck. With a grunt he stands on his feet, taking his glass with him through the barely illuminated hallway that separated both chambers, guided by the fulfilling scent of horker meat fried in it's own fat. Taking his seat at one of the rectangular table's end he swaps the glass of wine for knife and fork, giving a quick look to make sure everyone was already eating. They were, looking down at their plates in a somewhat shameful silence as their forks and gleaming knives cut without effort through the meatballs before seasoning them in the tomato sauce and silently placing it on their mouth.

The enviroment was tense and thick, the silence being only broken by the metallic utensils scraping eachother. A first look at the meatballs revealed they were indeed cold, strangely, as they were cooked not half an hour ago and left in the boiling tomato sauce. They were dull and tasteless, far too overcooked and extremely cold, the sauce was also overcooked but extremely salted and the goat cheese grated on top seemed spoiled. Trying to be as decent as able, he swallows but pushes the plate away.

**"Disgusting."** - he says. Nilsine drops the fork and knife on the ceramic plate, turning her head away from her husband, trying to hold back her tongue. Siegfried loved her madly, but she was certainly the worst cook he had even met. And it was quite annoying when she insisted on cooking instead of allowing a qualified servant to do it properly.

**"Kids, let me tell you a story."** Said Nilsine without turning her head from the fireplace.** "There once was a happy family, with a man and a woman and their two kids. They lived in a huge mansion and had many servants to serve them, many riches for them to live off and were famous all over Skyrim."**

Siegfried took his glass of wine, taking a slow sip as he watches with sharp eyes at the woman and her bitter words. His eyes drifted down to the cold meatballs again, seriously considering resuming his meal in order to suffocate the rage of his wife.

**"But still, the man of the house was not happy. He started vanishing for weeks, making strange friendships and lying to his wife. He stopped seeing his kids and instead lied to them aswell, all for his STUPID fantasies and obsessions."** Nilsine returned to her meal, cutting through the meatballs with a furious knife that would soon cut through the plate. **"Eventually, his wife was dragged along in his obsession. She tried to reason with the stubborn man, but he wouldn't give up. And you know what happened at the end, kids?"** With a devastating scream, Nilsine stood up as her hands swiped the cold plate to the ground, the ceramic breaking in infinite shards on the wooden floor.

Siegfried immediately panicked under such racket, the guilt souring the sweet taste of the wine. How could a critic cause such reaction in her? Something was out of place. He had known her for over a decade, and she was always calm and well-humored. He still remembers the day the met, their first night together, how their raised their kids... how he killed her. The revelation was horrific, paralyzing him and widening his eyes, thwarting his breath as he now understands. Before he could do anything, Nilsine had already climbed atop the table, walking towards him with furious thunderous steps.

**"The man raped her and killed her. And afterwards, he slaughtered his two sons. Burned the mansion down and ran away without a pinch of shame."** Siegfried felt his hands shaking violently on top of the table, yet he couldn't lift his eyes from his lap. But still he could see his two sons eating as if nothing was happening, in a sheepish silence. His heart was compressed to a point he believed it would kill him, the stomach tied in a knot. With all strength he had, he slowly began lifting his eyes.

And there she stood, looking down on him with two black voids as eyes. Darker than any pit, scarier than any blade or whip. Black lines ran down from the two black holes, forming torrents that ended up in her twisted smile that seeked to torture him, that seeked to laugh at his sins. Her hands reach for the luxorious skirt made of the finest wool, with silky adornments that despite it's superb quality only reek of decay and death. As she pulls it up to her knees, pure red blood runs down from her loins, directly onto his plate where the meatballs were now maggots covered in thick black mud, dancing and twisting in the ambrosia.

**"You did this to me! You did this to me!"** She screamed so loud and clear, the blood from her loins becoming chunks of meat as if being as torn and broken as her voice. Panic took control, pushing the man off his seat towards the door, the walls threatening to fall on him from their malevolent dance, leaks appearing in the wood above where ghostly hands filtered and reached to grab on the man.

Despite his physical strength and size, he felt weak. He felt unable to defend himself from his sins and regrets, like an insect haunted by a furious boot. His hands were clumsy, yet still they managed to open the door while the screams of her wife and the sounds of his sons' untensils still haunted him from behind. He watched from jaded eyes as he cried how the world outside, how the landscape he used to know was lifeless and black, the same darkness that he saw in his wife looming with it's angst all around.

He ran as fast as he could, as further away from his home as possible hoping to leave his sins behind and reach redemption. Yet they never left his ears, haunting him until he falls on his knees from exhaustion. The nausea took it's toll as he recalled the illusion of a meal that turned out into maggots, feeling how they danced inside his stomach. He heaves, being chocked by whatever was trying to come out from within his flesh.

Eyes. The eyes of his wife, of his sons, came out from his mouth. With a wet spash they fell onto the dirt below, before they all turn to look up at him to question him: "Why? Why did you do it? How could you do this to us?" Red lines grew on them, soon the entire eyeball becoming red and soul-piercing, ground-shaking and mind-breaking.

A thunder rackets through the dark sky, yet no lighning follows. The light wanes furthermore as the screams and inquiries of his deceased loved ones fill his ears and he tries to suffocate them with his own screams. He crawls forward, trying to get away from the three shades that looked from behind, that looked from above at the maggot he is.

**"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"** He yelled with whatever air was still in his lungs, with whatever hope he had left in his beaten heart. Yet it was useless, as their begs and accusations only became louder than the constant thunder in the skies, so loud he felt his ears ache and bleed. Before him there was no more soil to crawl away, only an open grave as deep and dark as the eyes of the shades behind him. Standing on the edge he stands on his knees as he looks at the mercyless skies, as he screams for undertanding and forgiveness to a deaf god. His hands open as if expecting salvation, least nothing but the pain in his ears and heart came.

With his own scream he reaches for his face, as his nails dig deep in his skin and begin stripping the flesh in order to silence the voices, in order to end this nightmare and pay for his fibres of his muscles slashed apart between his fingers, with a pain so intense his back arched so much that he lost balance, and fell directly into the open grave, into the dark hole that would swallow him as the shades looked from above yet did not silence. Trapped in his own grave, with his fingers pressing on his eyeballs until they explode into a messy liquid, as the voices above continue to suffocate even the thunder his body loses control. Even without eyes he could see, even without flesh on his face he could feel, even without hope he lived...

And finally, lightning came to the realm of Quagmire. The voices of his sins were replaced by the falling of the red rain. The shades were replaced by agonic cadavers waving their hands from the soil for attention. The landscape returned to the crimson decay he had walked forever. Only he remains in this abyssmal graveyard, still twisting and turning in his own dark hole while his voice yells in despair as if still hearing the voices inside of his head.

Where this lone man would repeat the same words over and over again as if someone would hear him, where his throat would be torn apart from screaming.

**Kill me! Kill me!**

... yet no one was listening, yet nobody was with him.


End file.
